


Handled

by FreshBrains



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Community: comment_fic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Wesley, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: “I’m a prostitute,” Wesley says bluntly. “You know that, right?”“I’m not an idiot,” the man says sharply, and Wesley snaps his mouth shut. “I can also tell you’re a man who can get a job done correctly, and I have enough jobs to keep you busy.”At that, Wesley bites back a smile. “That sounds reasonable.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ Comment_fic prompt: _James Wesley/Wilson Fisk, sugar daddy AU_.

After breakfast, Wesley ties Wilson’s tie for him. He always does. That’s their ritual.

“Thank you,” Wilson says, cupping Wesley’s hands in his own. Wesley likes his hands—big, strong. Steady. Capable of wrapping around a throat and _squeezing_. “I’d like you to stay in today.”

Wesley frowns at that, pressing his hands to Wilson’s lapels, smoothing his jacket. “Are you sure? Madame Gao is today.” Though the façade of ignorance has passed, Wilson still prefers Wesley to translate. He likes his voice.

“Change of plans,” Wilson says. He turns his head, just a little, and Wesley takes his cue, leaning up to kiss Wilson on the cheek. “I’ll expect you here when I return?” It sounds like a question, but it isn’t.

“Yes, sir,” Wesley says. “I’ll be here.”

He’s always there. He’s wherever he’s needed. In the end, that’s his _job_.

*

“Tell me what you want,” the man says. He stares out the window into the rain, watching Hell’s Kitchen not like it is the urban armpit Wesley ended up in when nowhere else wanted him, but like he’s seeing the city through new eyes. “Exactly what you want.”

“Money,” Wesley says without hesitation, a laugh on his lips. He shivers. Though he and the man are both in the backseat of the sleek Lincoln, there’s a world of space between them. His shoes are soaked through, making him feel grimy. “Somewhere to live. A paycheck. What does _anyone_ want?”

The man turns to look at Wesley for the first time. Though he’s not classically handsome, he’s captivating. He doesn’t look like any other client Wesley has had. “I need an assistant,” he says. “A body man. Where I am, you are, unless I need you somewhere else.” He reaches forward and as if on cue, the driver drops a thick roll of bills into his hand. “Would you like to make a deal?”

Wesley has never seen that much cash up close. It makes his mouth water. “Wherever you are, I am,” he repeats. “I usually get paid by the night. Money exchanged for services rendered.”

“I can arrange that,” the man says easily. “Every night, every morning. It matters little to me. It will be your choice.” He looks out the window again. “If we agree, you’re mine. I am your employer. There are no others.”

“I’m a prostitute,” Wesley says bluntly. “You know that, right?”

“I’m not an idiot,” the man says sharply, and Wesley snaps his mouth shut. “I can also tell you’re a man who can get a job done correctly, and I have enough jobs to keep you busy.”

At that, Wesley bites back a smile. “That sounds reasonable.”

“Good,” the man says, voice pleased. Wesley holds out his hand, expecting a shake, but instead, the man drops the money into Wesley’s palm and curls his fingers around it. “My name is Wilson Fisk. You start now.”

*

 

“You’re a right-hand man,” Page says, voice soft and seeking. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she’s looking at Wesley like she wants to peel away his layers. “But you’re dressed like a…”

Wesley’s hand itches to grab the gun between them—it’s his usual response to _anyone_ presuming they know _anything_ about him and his employer. “You don’t need to finish that sentence.”

“Like a boyfriend,” Page says, eyes locked on his.

Wesley just smiles. He forces himself to be aware of his body in a way he never was before Fisk. He feels the soft grain of a silk shirt against his skin, the cool tick of a watch that cost more than the entire city block on his wrist. His shoes are custom ordered. His cologne is hand-picked. Even his underwear—plain black cotton boxer briefs—are not his choice.

He is a man who handles things, but at the same time, he is a man who is _handled_.

“I’m many things,” Wesley says. “All of which won’t bode well for you if you reach for that gun.”

She doesn’t. And that surprises him more than anything. If he was just a crook, a hired hand, he’d be riddled with bullets already. He can see it in Page’s eyes.

But a kept boy? _Wilson Fisk’s_ kept boy? That’s not something you dispose of in an abandoned warehouse.

*

Wilson—he’s _Wilson_ now, when they’re alone—trails his fingers down Wesley’s spine, touching the knobs of bone, grazing the bruised skin of his hip, drifting down to cup Wesley’s bare ass.

“Already?” Wesley’s words are muffled in the pillow. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt like this, like the world has stopped and reduced itself to the feeling of a man inside of him, _around_ him, owning him so completely he’s been remade. Has he _ever_ felt like this?

Wilson flushes a little. “I’m sorry,” he says, pulling his hand back. “I’ve exhausted you.”

Wesley smiles. He turns onto his side to face Wilson. “Maybe,” he says, “but I don’t mind.” Wilson made love like he did everything else—hard, serious, and with enough force to make Wesley ache. But he was a _thorough_ lover, attentive and kind, attuned to every noise and motion Wesley made beneath him. “Why now?”

Wilson swallows, looking embarrassed. “Why not?”

Then Wesley finds himself agreeing— _why not?_ He’s proven himself time and again that he’s loyal, he’s strong, he works for every cent he’s owed. He doesn’t take the bank account or fine clothes or expensive dinners for granted. _Handle, handled_.

But this—he isn’t being paid for this. For the first time in too long, he’s in bed with someone because he _wants_ to be. Wilson made that very clear before they even so much as kissed. _Money was exchanged for services rendered, not for pleasure given_.

“I could give you everything, James,” Wilson says, soft and serious, not meeting Wesley’s eyes.

And Wesley knows when not to push. “If I need something,” Wesley says, inching closer to Wilson, pulling him into his arms, “I’ll ask.”


End file.
